


stay with brooklyn

by newsiees



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5338886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsiees/pseuds/newsiees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>strangers can become something more as quickly as night turns to day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stay with brooklyn

_The year was 1883. New York City._

 

A young Italian woman, with a protruding stomach, gripped her Irish husband's wrist as they pushed their way through the crowd.

Ellis Island was busy this time of year, as spring had always been the fountain of new beginnings. Millions of wanderers with bright eyes stumbled against one another as they anxiously awaited their new life.

The expectant woman was overly excited and showing it by smiling up to her ears as she awaited the arrival of her family: her parents and the abundance of extended family she was blessed with. She had come to America from Italy two years prior with her brother, luckily meeting a handsome Irish lad the day of her arrival in this very same spot. The two foreigners had immediately hit it off and were married half a year later, moving to Brooklyn to start their new lives together.

And now, she was pregnant with her first child and positively _glowing._

She gripped her husband's shoulder and rose up to her toes as the ferry began to dock, attempting to peer over the heads of others awaiting their loved ones.

Just then, a thin man not much taller than herself pushed her out of his way, almost knocking her over, had it not been for her husband standing beside her.

Her taciturn spouse calmly put his hand in front of the stranger for the sole purpose of preventing him from continuing on his rush.

The inconsiderate stranger's bony, pale hand was clasped on the wrist of a small, skinny women wearing a scowl. Her eyes were lined with red to match her freshly bruising wrists.

The man swore in Gaelic before muttering a hostile apology and pulling the woman along.

The two gaunt Irishes were unwed and, unbeknownst to them at the time, also expecting a child.

They moved to Brooklyn.

* * *

_1890._

 

Spot Conlon was walking down an empty city street at an hour that was much too late for his small soul. He had never given the dark time a second thought.

The dirt of the road, usually hidden by the bustling actions of many people, was now free for the six year old to escape to.

In the distance, he could hear the click of hooves and the collection of voices drifting from the many windows.

And another noise, not foreign to Spot's young ears, coming from somewhere nearby.

He looked around and saw a small figure shaking in a faintly lit alleyway.

Slowly, Spot made his way to the small silhouette, careful not to scare the kid away.

"Are you alright?"

The innocent head decked with scraggly brown hair turned towards Spot. His disheveled, dirty face had been filled with sadness but a simple smile impressed its way onto the freckled chin.

"I think I will be."

* * *

_1896\. Brooklyn._

 

Spot and his Italian friend were seated behind the Sheepshead, die in hand as they rolled numbers, attempting to beat each other in their game.

“Jackie’s crew is doing real good nowadays,” the thirteen-year-old self-proclaimed Italian, known to anyone who would ask as Race, said calmly. Only his eyes gave his nerves away as they flicked up quickly to get a look at Spot’s reaction.

“Yeah?” Spot rolled again.

“Yeah...My ma needs some cash, you know that.”

“I know that.” Race had always been a little more loquacious, which became more evident at this moment, courtesy of his chaotic nerves.

“And I’m really the only Higgins who can make some money, people aren’t really lining up to hire women, and-and Jack’s told me all about ‘Hattan and it sounds real cool and of course I’d miss you but until you fix up Brooklyn like you’re saying you’re gonna…” Race stopped to breathe, looking up at Spot’s shadowed face.

“I think you should sell for Manhattan.”

“I know, I know, it makes me a real lousy friend but- wait, what?”

“I think you should sell for Manhattan,” Spot said slowly, looking at his fist as he shook the makeshift die in his hand. His casual continuation of the game was a caring gesture to calm his friend.

“We wouldn’t be able to sell together.”

“Why not? You’re buying and living in Manhattan, but here in Sheepshead is your home field and you know it.”

“Well, yeah…,” Race softly considered, taking the die from Spot’s worn hands.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Thank you.” His words of gratitude were just more than silence, but Spot had surely heard them.

“Didn’t pick your sorry self up from that alley all those years ago just to have you forget about me the next day, did I?” Spot retorted with his easy confidence that Race so greatly appreciated.

“Hey, my father had just died!” The Italian’s smile filled his entire face, despite the grief in his words.

He continued with a rare sincerity:

“I could never forget the ‘King of Brooklyn.’” 

* * *

_June 1899._

 

“Hey, Spot.”

“Higgins.” Spot’s sharp word was thrown from his mouth straight into the distance, but the absence of the familiar nickname found its way to pierce Race.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Race said slowly, stepping closer to the restless fifteen- year-old.

“You haven’t been by in a while.”

“Yeah, I guess not,” Race chuckled in an unsuccessful attempt to lighten the mood.

The Brooklyn sea air was full of salt and hostility, as Spot stood on the old wood dock with his hands jammed in his pockets and eyes set on the horizon. Race could only stand near, looking softly upon Spot’s far-off grimace.

“How’s Brooklyn?” Conversation could only help, Race thought.

“It’s mine.” Information. Spot was relaxing.

“So I’ve heard. Pretty cool, huh? Everyone is so scared of the big ol’ King of Brooklyn and then I heard it was you! Spot Conlon?? _Scary??_ Why, he saves blubberin’ kids in alleyways!” Race was laughing now, owning and sharing a genuine smile.

“Nah, I only save you,” Spot corrected, grinning while his head rotated to look Race in the eyes.

For once, Race couldn’t seem to find anything to say.

“Jack is gonna be coming by,” Race stuttered before his mind decided to let him make any rash actions. “Gonna strike. A new guy’s idea and he needs your help. Brooklyn’s help.”

Spot’s smile shrunk.

“Is that why you came?”

“I came to see you,” Race breathed in all honesty.

“Yeah, well, here I am!” Spot glowered before turning on his heel to storm away.

“Spot, wait a sec-” Race grabbed the fifteen-year-old’s hand to try to stop his exit.

Spot froze solid. His muscles tensed and Race pretended not to admire the way they rolled across the protruding bones.

Spot didn’t let go.

“Tell Jack I’ll talk to him if he’s got his head screwed on right.”

Race could have caught flies in his oddly quiet mouth as Spot slowly slid his thin fingers away from Race’s larger ones, walking off into Brooklyn’s shadows.

Both boys were shaking, yet neither were able to accept why. 

* * *

_August. 1899._

 

The sky was a thoughtful twist of fire orange and spring yellow, molding with the flawed world around the city. Two destitute teenagers lay sprawled on the old wood of their Brooklyn dock, high on life as they easily laughed with each other.

“Oh, Spotty, where would I be without you?” Race performed dramatically as he let his body roll itself onto his side to face his friend.

Spot grinned at the sky before turning to rest on his side as well, matching Race as they competed in a goofy stare down.

“You’d still be in tears.”

“Oh, how I wish you were wrong!” The air was comfortable and Race thanked his lucky stars for this moment.

They continued their staring competition until they realized it had transitioned from a playful game to an adventure into the art of each other’s eyes.

Race turned away first, shaking his head as if that could erase all the impulsively passionate moments the two had shared.

Spot rolled onto his back after Race’s lead, considering it might be for the better.

***

Spot awoke hours later in the dark with a warm Race clinging to his shirt and pressing the forever-smiling mouth into the skin between the shirt collar on Spot’s chest.

Spot discovered in this moment that his ideas of what was for the better were considerably blurred.

As he breathed in the familiar scent of Race’s curls and felt the pressure of the older boy’s calves against his own, he decided that he did not care.

He closed his eyes with a small smile and slept on until morning.

 

* * *

_Brooklyn, NY. 1901._

 

“C’mon, Race, I got us the jobs. The least you could’ve done was find us some cheap place to, ya know, live in.” Spot wasn’t really mad. Race was just being Race and Spot is always okay with that.

“I know, I know, I did...but…,” Race was walking around the living room of Jack, Davey, and Crutchie’s crumbling flat, swaying on his toes while raising uneasy eyes to meet Spot’s shadowed pair.

“If you like it, I like it. Why didn’t you tell the guy ‘yeah’?”

“Well, he kept making these...remarks about how I was gonna share the crumby dump with my ‘lady friend’ and I got nervous and said I’d think about it and…”

“Well, you do kinda got lady hair, Spot.”

It was then the young men noticed that Jack was walking into the small pad with Davey not too far behind, complete with his ancient reading glasses and peeling briefcase.

“Aw, shut it, Kelly. You love it,” Spot greeted his friend with a wink and a sultry hand through the therefore mentioned locks. They had gotten closer since the strike, almost entirely due to Race.

“Well, _I_ don’t but...” Jack begun, but ceased when Davey slapped him across the gut.

The walking-mouth smiled warmly at Spot and Race.

“I think you two should take the room.”

Jack snorted and attempted to add another vulgar comment, but Davey’s paternal glare snapped his mouth shut with a sharp clank of teeth.

“Can’t argue with Davey, can we?” Race offered, lifting the corner of his mouth into a smirk.

“Never could,” Spot agreed, rolling his eyes as he shook his head at the truth in his comment.

“Ya know, Spot, I think I’m the only one in this room that gets the same stubborn treatment that you’re famous for,” Jack whined from the sagging brown armchair Davey’s father had donated to the boys.

“You know, Jack?” Spot laughed warmly, leaning against a nearby wall:

“I think you’re right.” 

* * *

_Brooklyn, New York. 1905._

 

It’s hard to say when the pair, who had been friends for seventeen years now, grew from being the best of friends to something more. They themselves don’t even know.

After moving into the apartment Davey had encouraged them to purchase, they discovered they must tackle the fact that it was only one room, with one bed tucked behind a wall.

Alas, Spot Conlon and Racetrack Higgins never would do what they must.

When night fell, each would tuck themselves comfortable into opposite sides of the petrous mattress, yet wake up each morning burrowed into one another. Neither said a word about the situation, not of praise nor complaint.

With time, they fell asleep the same way they knew they would awake - happily.

One morning when Davey stopped by early to drop off coffee in celebration of Spot’s promotion, he took great joy in peeking behind the wall and finding Race thrown across Spot’s chest, with the latter’s arm wrapped snuggly around the former’s back.

It wasn’t until Spot was twenty-one and Race was twenty-two that the topic of their tender moments was brought, or rather thrust, into conversation.

Race was restless. To say the least.

Spot had woken in a good mood on the sunny Sunday, mostly due to Race’s familiar drool on his shoulder, and was now dipping a mug into the metallic bucket on the floor to be washed.

But Race was on edge and it was eating at Spot.

“Racetrack, what is _up_ with you?” Race froze in his reorganization of a small stack of books. They had already been in alphabetical order, Spot knew. He did them himself.

“Nothing, nothing. Just thinking.”

“Yeah, well, think out loud if you have to. This silence is more painful than a fight,” Spot joked, expecting Race to add on a sort of punch-line, as he usually did.

“Sorry,” Race whispered, running his hands along the spine of a copy of some novel Davey had known they wouldn’t read.

“It’s just...Spot...where are we going?” Race had set down the book as he spoke and looked at Spot with weak eyes that he knew he had to reassure.

“Stay.”

It took Race years to realize Spot was answering his question.

Spot stood from his crouched position and slowly made his way over to Race. With gentle, yet important, hands against shoulders, he pushed the older Italian against the wall.

Strangely, he removed his hands and casually began drying them on his pants.

“Spot, what are you-”

Race’s words never did reach the atmosphere, as they were breathed in by Spot, who had thrust himself wholeheartedly at Race with his mouth as his guide.

Some time away, Spot pulled away at the speed of a snail with nowhere to go, his eyes remaining softly shut.

Cautiously, the lids disappeared and Spot’s light eyes met Race’s bright ones.

Race was grinning with pure joy as he leaned back in, hands beginning to grasp for Spot.

It was now that Spot pivoted in record time and ran.

* * *

_That same momentous day._ _Brooklyn, New York. 1905._

 

“Nuh-uh, Davey. I cannot go back. Did you hear me right? I said I _kissed him_. On the mouth. With my mouth,” Spot was curled on Davey’s dad’s armchair, a popular attraction, rocking back and forth as Davey sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him.

“I heard the whole story correctly, Spot. Twice. Including the part where he went in for more!”

“And then I ran.”

“And why did you run?” Davey was the level-headed one of the group and Spot would always be thankful for his existence. Especially in times like these when his mind was an explosion of dangerously alluring fire that closely resembled how his stomach had felt when he kissed Race.

“I dunno,” Spot felt jumpy and for a split second let his mind know that Race would help, but told himself now was not the time for feelings.

“It’s okay to be scared, Spot.” Luckily, Davey knew now was the perfect time for feelings. “Especially concerning a situation involving someone you care so deeply about. You really care about him, don’t you?”

Spot stayed silent as a more informative answer to Davey’s question.

Davey got up in unison with his next words of motivation as a simple gesture to encourage Spot into action.

“Well, don’t tell me, chatterbox. Go tell him. He’ll be there.”.

“I know. I told him to stay.”

* * *

_Brooklyn, New York._  
_The year of nineteen hundred and seven_.

 

The sun was blinding in its brightness as it burst through the dusty window glass and cast its glow across the bed.

Spot’s eyelids stung with the illumination, but he couldn’t bring himself to be angry with the sun when his unfocused eyes were able to see its magic.

The glaze shone upon Race’s unconscious smile, lips gleaming red with the swelling that came from being deeply kissed. His freckled shoulders, stronger now than they had ever become as a newsie, had their sharp form outlined in yellow and proved Race’s angelic attributes.

As if Spot didn’t already know how lucky he was.

“Enjoying the show?”

Spot chuckled and nestled his face into the soft hair that Race had been blessed with.

“You wish.”

Race only laughed to that and pushed his face farther into Spot’s chest.

“What time is it?”

Spot craned his neck to the rickety night stand to catch a peek at his scratched, secondhand watch.

“Time to get up.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Spot countered, swinging his legs off the side of the bed whilst sitting up, causing Race’s head to hit the mattress with a loud thump, drowned out by his even louder groan.

“We can skip today. No one will mind.”

“And what do you suppose we give them as a reason? Too busy ravishing each other mad?” Spot rolled his eyes at the thought of sharing such information with the uptight public.

“Yes,” Race hummed, propping his head up with his hand as he lay on his side, posing.

“Oh, yes. They’ll love it.” Spot was up and deliberately ignoring Race for the purpose of achieving the self control needed to pull on his pants. 

This veiling only caused Race to groan louder, but he did reluctantly pull himself up to get dressed.

All too soon, Race was finishing up his tie and Spot’s deft fingers were working the last button of his flannel.

“Not gonna forget about me while you’re at work, are you?” Spot smirked, lifting conflictingly vulnerable eyes to find the sparkle that Race’s offered.

“Not a chance. You’ll forever stay in my mind, Spot Conlon.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I could never forget the ‘King of Brooklyn.’”

And with that, the morning sun smiled with the infinite love that would always fix the heart of Brooklyn.

_fin._


End file.
